


This Boy's on Fire

by redcigar



Series: Jet Smoke and Dragon Fire [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Courtship, Dragon Stiles, First Dates, Humour, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 08:09:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3439856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcigar/pseuds/redcigar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since Stiles has actually made decent headway into his English Lit essay, he can be forgiven for not being at his most attentive when Lydia says:</p><p>“Dragons. Possessive tendencies.” </p><p>“Yeah, sure,” Stiles mumbles around the lid of his highlighter, “totally, all the way. Rawr.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Boy's on Fire

Stiles knows he’s not the most morally-centred guy in Beacon Hills. He’s also not the _least_ morally-centred guy, so he figures he deserves some leeway here and there. Protecting a ramshackle pack of teenage runaways, werewolf failures, and a banshee doesn’t exactly lead itself along the track of the Lawful Good. So here and there, Stiles has had to… bend the rules, a bit. Need a key cut illegally? Sure, Stiles can handle it. Need access to protected government files? Sure, Stiles can manipulate Danny into handling it. Need to break into private property and possibly getting it destroyed in the process of an interstate pack dispute? Scott, you are seriously pushing it here, but yeah, Stiles can handle it.

 

Stiles does what he does for the protection of the pack, and he knows he does it for entirely selfish reasons. The pack is _his_ , and if the pack is threatened, well…

 

Herein lies the problem, see. Because one day – one sole, blessedly peaceful day – Stiles and Lydia are camped out in Derek’s loft home sitting while Scott and Isaac take Derek out to buy actual furniture. Stiles is actually focusing on his homework for once, while Lydia is engrossed in whatever mythological bestiary she managed to dig out of the internet this time. Since Stiles has made decent headway into his English Lit essay, he can be forgiven for not being at his most attentive when Lydia says:

 

“ _Huh_.”

 

And then she says:

 

“Dragons. Possessive tendencies.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles mumbles around the lid of his highlighter, “totally, all the way. _Rawr_.”

 

And that really should have been the end of it.

 

Which doesn’t explain why Stiles is currently standing with Derek at the candy bar of the local theatre, arm-in-iron-grip-arm, while the server in front of them is looking desperately on the edge of tears.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to the pack,” Derek says, standing on the threshold of the Stilinski household in one of his nicer henley’s, shifting from foot-to-foot. Stiles thinks he may have actually _shaved_.

                                                                                            

“I can’t make that promise, son,” The Sheriff says solemnly. It’s the evening, and he’s dressed down from his uniform into a weathered sweater and soft jeans. The smell of fresh, warm pizza wafting from the kitchen is additional evidence that this is indeed – a _night off_. “Please tell me no-one is dying.”

 

“Uh, no,” Derek says, and then looks over the Sheriff’s shoulder with desperation.

 

Stiles, because he is a generous, warm-hearted person, lingers on the stairwell and shouts, “Are those _flowers_?”

 

Derek throws them into the shrubs. “It was Erica’s idea!” He snaps. “Get in the car!”

 

“Oh thank god,” Stiles stresses, “for a second there I thought this was the Bodysnatcher’s all over again. Is that _cologne_?”

 

“ _Stiles_ ,” the Sheriff sighs, “I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but – _get in the man’s car_.”

 

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

 

“Quiet you. I want him home happy, safe, and completely _human shaped_ by eleven. Do we understand each other?”

 

“Totally, dad,” Stiles claps his shoulder, “should I change my shirt?”

 

Derek glances down at the offending item. It’s covered in cheeto dust and what looks like cool-aid stains.

 

“ _Christ_ ,” his dad says, pained.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You know, I’m not sure a movie and In-N-Out counts as traditional dragon courting methods,” Stiles says around a mouthful of chips. Derek glances sidelong at him, the dark lighting from the theatre lobby casting attractive hollows on his cheeks. Cheekbones. Stiles _loves_ those cheekbones. He reaches out and tweaks one for good measure.

 

“You stole my frying pans,” Derek retorts quietly, but Stiles can hear the smile in his voice. “Do you want something else before we go in?”

 

“ _Do I_.”

 

So they end up at the candy bar. Everything is _fine_ , okay, totally A-OK no problems here. They’ve managed to make it halfway through the date without any werewolf shenanigans, hunter interruptions, witch spells or unannounced natural phenomenon’s.

 

Stiles even got a sneaky make-out session in the car on their way through drive-through. Somebody beeped them. It was _awesome_.

 

Which means it is totally unfair that they get to the head of the line and the server at the bar takes one look at them, takes a _second_ look at Derek, and then grins broadly with bright, flushing cheeks.

 

And Stiles sees red.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Stiles is on his knees in the street behind the theatre, spitting hot, acidic _something_ out of his mouth into the bricks. “What the _shit_.”

 

“Stiles!” Derek is pacing back and forth, looking torn between worried and furious. “What the _hell--_ ”

 

“You think _I_ know?” Stiles demands. “What _is_ this, oh my _god_.”

 

The back door of the theatre slams open, and the server appears, with what looks like all of Beacon Hills local security officers – so, two guys – and the manager.

 

“It’s ok!” Stiles shouts, back hunched to them. “It’s – um – an allergic reaction!”

 

“Yes.” Derek says quickly. “This is. Um. Normal.”

 

“There was _smoke_!” The server shrieks. “His lips were all _red_!”

 

“Totally normal,” Derek presses, “for… severe allergic reactions.”

 

“Hey,” one security guard starts, “aren’t you that Hale guy? Weren’t you arrested?”

 

“Uh.”

 

“ _Ugh_ ,” Stiles coughs up more of the hot, bright fluid, and Derek’s chest twinges in sympathy at the pained-sounding coughs wracking the boy’s ribs.

 

“I’m calling the Sheriff department.” The manager decides firmly, scowling at Derek like he thinks he’ll make a run for it any second.

 

“Oh,” Derek sighs, relaxing, “good.”

 

“You’re freakin’ weird,” the serving girl says.

 

“Fist bump.” Stiles holds out his arm limply.

 

Derek kicks him in the shin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Stiles is starting to get suspicious about his dad. No one mortal man can wrangle an entire suspicious party of theatre-goers away from his Dragon-son and Werewolf-son-in-law (what? Stiles has plans, okay), while getting the latter into the privacy of his cruiser within ten minutes and not arouse any trouble.

 

“Dad, dad,” Stiles hacks into the brown paper bag Derek presses dutifully against his mouth. It doesn’t seem to be working. Whatever Stiles is throwing up, it’s melting through the bottom of the bag and hissing against the carpet. “ _What is going on_? Do I spit or swallow, dad, _do I spit or swallow!_ ”

 

Behind the wheel, the Sheriff heaves a great, put-upon sigh. He’s still in his nice sweater. Stiles can feel guilt emanating from Derek, who is hunched in towards him sadly. He aims for a gentle pat on the knee, but ends up gripping it like a lifeline as another convulsion comes over him.

 

“What happened exactly, Derek?”

 

“Uh,” Derek flounders, “there was this girl, at the candy bar, and she uh—”

 

“She flirted with him dad!” Stiles snaps. “Right in – _bleugh_ – in front of me! I had my hand on his arm and everything! What do I have to do, tattoo my name on his face? _Oh gross_ \--”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I figured. Give it a minute son. I think it’s just your body getting used to the reaction.”

 

“ _What reaction_?” Derek and Stiles demand simultaneously.

 

Which is when Stiles straightens with a surprised: “ _Hup_!” And freezes.

 

“Stiles?” Derek asks slowly. For some reason, his wolf is demanding he back away slowly.

 

“I hope my insurance covers this,” The Sheriff mutters.

 

“ _Hup_.” Stiles agrees solemnly.

 

Right before a stream of jet-blue flame bursts out from between his tightly-clenched lips, and sets the back of the passenger seat on fire.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I had a deputy once,” The Sheriff admits as they herd Stiles inside Derek’s loft. He’s stopped coughing acid, but every so often a tiny flame spits out between his lips. “Then we had a department barbeque, and your mother met him, and whatever he said about me she didn’t seem to _like--_ ”

 

“He insulted you in front of your wife?” Derek marvels.

 

“Uh, no.” The Sheriff flushes. “Nothing like that.”

 

“ _Wow_ ,” Stiles says, “ _dad_.”

 

“Two weeks he was with our branch.” The Sheriff says, ignoring his son’s elbow-jab. “ _Two weeks_.”

 

“Your wife sounds like a formidable woman,” Derek says politely.

 

“Yeah, she was. Which is why we’re going to need to… uh… _pull back_ these tendencies of hers Stiles has obviously inherited. She was very powerful, you know,” The Sheriff’s eyes gentle, “powerful and brilliant. Stiles has already got the brilliant part down, of course.”

 

“Hey Derek! Derek!” Stiles yells from the kitchen. “Feel like steak? Turn the gas on, this is going to be _awesome_.”

 

“Hold that thought,” Derek says.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

So. Heat. _Fire._ Stiles is totally onboard with this.

 

Well, at least after he burnt his way through four different pillowcases in his sleep, but hey, upside? Fire resistance. Neat. “If only your bedframe felt the same way,” his dad had quipped dryly as he burst into Stiles’ room for another consecutive morning, fire-extinguisher raised. But whatever, dad, _dragon_.

 

Also. Turns out? Derek _likes it_.

 

“No I don’t,” Derek mumbles, stretched out across Stiles in the loft bed, lazily rubbing his stubble across Stiles’ throat, “I think it’s dumb.”

 

“I think your _face_ is dumb,” Stiles retorts, rolling them over so he can bring fire-warm lips across Derek’s. “And you totally like it. You totally like _me_.”

 

“The jury is out.”

 

“Oh look, the jury is back, hey jury,” Stiles thumbs a wave to the corner of the room, “what’s that you’re saying? Stiles is _smokin’ hot_?”

 

“I hate this jury.” Derek grumbles, already drifting to sleep beneath Stiles, his pale skin emanating warmth and comfort, “disband it immediately.”

 

Stiles presses his teeth into Derek’s lower lip, pushes the heat in his chest to the surface so he can blow a steady ribbon of smoke between their mouths. Derek’s pink tongue touches the corner of his lip, and Stiles catches it between his fangs.

 

“You grinned,” Stiles croons victoriously.

  
“Never.”

“When I snapped at that girl. You totally grinned. I _saw_ you.”

 

Derek’s cheeks turn a bright, virulent pink.

 

“Booyah,” Stiles whispers.

 

His eyes, when they slide closed, are a beautiful molten gold. Derek lets himself fall asleep to their glow, wrapped up in their warmth, actually content.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this one is super short but:
> 
> Dragons?
> 
> Dragons.
> 
> Join me.


End file.
